


Falling for You is a Long Way Down

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Worship, Cannibalism, Dark fic, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are always whispers in the far corners of bars about the brothers Winchester. Their daddy had been a good man, a hunter on a mission and one of the best in the business. John’s boys, though, they were just a little too twisted, a little too far gone down the rabbit hole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling for You is a Long Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [powerbottomsammywinchester](http://powerbottomsammywinchester.tumblr.com) for the lovely art and the chance to write this fic.   
> You can find the post for the art [here](http://powerbottomsammywinchester.tumblr.com/post/143998091360/wincest-reversebang-author).

There are always whispers in the far corners of bars about the brothers Winchester. Their daddy had been a good man, a hunter on a mission and one of the best in the business. John’s boys, though, they were just a little too twisted, a little too far gone down the rabbit hole. Dean and Sam were never seen very far apart, not even when the younger Winchester wasn’t ready to be out on the job with his father and brother. Too close for too long, so something had gone wrong right under John Winchester’s nose, and by the time anyone was able to make him see the truth, there was nothing to be done. 

 

Bobby Singer had tried to reign them in, make something of their skills and instincts; it’s quite possible he only succeeded in making them more dangerous. Still, he was the only being on the planet that both boys had a soft spot for, and those he favored tended to be safe from the brothers’ . . . darker proclivities. 

 

No one could deny that the Winchesters were the best in the business. But no one would ever say that they were good men. 

 

* * *

 

Hazel eyes glint gold in the setting sun, Sam’s solemn gaze aimed out across the rolling prairie. Dean fights the urge to reach out and touch, knowing that, sometimes, Sam just needs the space. 

 

It’s been exactly thirty days since the angel Castiel pulled Dean out of hell. Thirty days of the fucking brand on his arm burning as though it can burn away the smokiness of his soul. 

 

“You don’t deserve to be saved,” the angel had gritted out in that barn, eyes glowing blue before he disappeared in a flash. 

 

Dean could’ve told him that. No God would find Dean Winchester to be righteous, no matter how hard he tried to follow in his sainted father’s footsteps. There’s too much innocent blood on his hands for that. 

 

Taking the exit, Dean rolls the Impala into a gas station for one last tank to get them to Whitefish. Sam comes back from paying with a couple bottles of Coke and candy bars in hand, tossing Dean his Snickers and settling the bottles on the seat between them. It’s good. Normal. It ignores the fact that there’s hellfire burning in the back of Dean’s brain and the itch to kill something building in his fingers. 

 

“Let me know when you need a break,” Sam murmurs, brushing his long fingers along the worn denim stretched over Dean’s knee. The sensation makes Dean shiver, but the warmth of Sam’s hand sends a jolt straight to his dick. There’s another five hours to the cabin, but Dean intends to see if he can make it in four. 

 

* * *

 

Every day, Sam spreads Dean out on the bed with gentle hands, petting over every place that makes Dean flinch again and again until the reflex fades. He soothes Dean’s pleas and cries, brushing their mouths together until Dean’s only whispering  _ please, please, Sammy, please.  _

 

There’s a tiny container in the fridge, and Dean scrambles toward the bathroom the first time Sam brings it out. Chili burns coming back up, makes Dean’s throat raw and his eyes water. He locks the door, weight slumped against the toilet while Sam begs him to come out. 

 

“It’s too soon,” Sam whispers. “I should’ve known that, Dean. I’m sorry, I just thought -” 

 

Memories flicker through Dean’s mind, flashes of hell that make him retch until his belly is empty. In the end, Dean crawls out of the bathroom and into Sam’s lap, grateful the container is nowhere in sight. He tries to drown out the stench of blood with the scent of warm little brother. Sam holds him until Dean’s trembling stops, then guides him gingerly to bed. 

 

Losing himself in pleasure is easy. Sam’s hands are knowing, tweaking Dean’s nipples and scratching along his hip bones. Little marks get sucked into Dean’s throat and bitten into his collarbones, stinging bruises that feel more like love than any tender touch. Long fingers slide into him, probing gently and stretching him to make room for Sam. There’s a half empty bottle of lube on the bedside, lid already open so all Sam has to do is dribble a little on his fingers and cock. 

 

Dean spreads for it, feeling wanton as he winds his legs around Sam’s waist, using them to pull his brother close. Sam’s thick and long, the first thrust in burning no matter how many times they do this. He waits just long enough for most of the ache to ease, thrusting into Dean in a familiar, steady beat that leaves the older Winchester moaning. 

 

“Let me see you, Dean,” Sam pants, reaching between them to grasp Dean’s cock, stroking it with quick jerks. The contrast in rhythm has Dean twisting, fingers tangling in the sheets as he tries to figure out what feels the best: fucking up into Sam’s hand or down onto his cock. 

 

Coming nearly hurts and leaves Dean feeling weak and vulnerable. He breathes a soft sigh of relief when Sam slumps down on top of him, heavy muscle pinning him to the bed. Dean feels safest just like this, in bed with Sam. The rest of the world can go fuck itself as far as he’s concerned. 

 

* * *

 

Sam ends up throwing out the scraps of meat, carting the container way out into the woods and dumping it in a stream. He’s not sure how he feels about it, if he can feel anything about it. Procuring fresh pieces for Dean had always been a method of showing his affection ever since Sam found out about his brother’s . . . .tastes. Sure, a part of him won’t miss having to smuggle it out of crime scenes or worrying about spoilage, but the rest of him is concerned about what this means for Dean. 

 

Hell has changed Dean. Of course it has. He’s more timid, more willing to bend to Sam’s will. Once upon a time, Sam would’ve been thrilled. Now, he just misses Dean’s fire, and he’s determined to help Dean get it back. 

 

Hunting helps. That becomes clear as soon as they’re out on the job. Dean takes on a werewolf unflinchingly, shooting it dead with a bullet straight to the heart. There’s a bit of that old, familiar glee in Dean’s face, his actions and expressions more animated the entire night. Adrenaline keeps him chipper and puts a swagger in his step that Sam sorely missed. 

 

The first night Sam makes a kill though, Dean leaves him on his own the moment the man starts to scream. He’s waiting in the Impala, expression flat and unreadable. Dean had never minded Sam scratching this unbearable itch of his before, and he doesn’t say anything now. That doesn’t mean Sam doesn’t feel the first hint of guilt he’s felt since he was sixteen, and he swallows back the tiny bit of resentment he feels. He can’t feel that way toward Dean, not now, not ever. His brother is all he has, and nothing - not even Hell - is going to keep them apart. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s blue eyes shine like they intend to burn, cold and intent. His words are bitten as he warns of the impending apocalypse, of the seals that are continually being broken. 

 

“You must keep your brother from Lucifer. From saying yes. At the very least, you should be able to do that.” 

 

A part of Dean is smug that he’s managed to foil heaven’s plans, just as a part of him is quietly ashamed that he’s not what they expected. He was meant to be the righteous man. Instead, his father had finally broken, had finally picked up the offered blade and was under the tutelage of Alistair himself. 

 

Once, he’d confessed his insecurities to Sam, about wanting to be a better son to their father, of being a better hunter and better brother. Sam had just drawn Dean closer and kissed his forehead gently. 

 

“You’re already the best there is, Dean. You’ve done everything Dad ever asked, done everything for me that you could, and done more for the world than it deserves.” 

 

Those words carried him for a long time, but in the face of the disapproval of an angel, Dean’s surety begins to wane. 

 

At least, until the angel Uriel blasts a small town off the map for basically shits and giggles. 

 

“They’re winged dicks. Fucking monsters,” Dean growls. They can see the curl of smoke from the crater, nothing left of thousands of lives but a hole in the ground and ash. The Winchesters add heaven to their hit list, shortly after any denizens of hell they can get their hands on. 

 

* * *

 

Strange occurrences keep popping up around the world, sending all the hunters into overdrive. Sam and Dean, of course, know it’s more seals breaking, edging the world closer and closer toward Lucifer and the apocalypse. 

 

The brothers are on the road to Wisconsin, after a panicked phone call from a boy who claimed to be their half brother - not that he knew they were brothers, but if he was really John’s son . . . 

 

Sam wants to kill him. It burns under his skin, fury at John redirecting itself at this unknown young man. Dean seems curious, but wary and Sam takes a deep breath, knowing he’s going to be following Dean’s lead on this one. 

 

In the end, Sam doesn’t get to kill anything but the ghoul wearing Adam Milligan’s face. His rotting corpse is in the basement of his mother’s home. He doesn’t say a word when Dean drops his lit Zippo into a puddle of gasoline, and they leave Windam with a wisp of smoke edging up into the sky as the Milligan house burns to the ground. 

 

Dean’s sullen for days after, nightmares creeping up on him even when he’s safely ensconced in Sam’s arms. He thrashes enough to leave Sam with a busted lip and black eye. 

 

Sam loses his cool two weeks later, dragging Dean out to the bar and luring a pretty young man - a young man who looks undeniably like Adam - back to their hotel room. Together, they make quick work of him, leaving his body still cooling on the bed and peeling out of town in the Impala. 

 

At long last, Dean finally shifts back towards the brother Sam’s used to. Hard shell on the outside, cool swagger where the world can see, and only soft in Sam’s bed. Sam can only grin in delight, trying to keep his head turned toward the window, but the inky dark of night means Dean can see his reflection in the glass. Calloused fingers slip through Sam’s and squeeze tight enough to make his knuckles crack. 

 

Sam squeezes right back. 

  
  


Lucifer never rises. Instead, Sam finally cracks, white-hot fury running through him when the angels go after Dean in an attempt to get him to say yes. He runs Uriel through with his own blade, the grace inside practically screaming as Sam shoves it through the angel’s skull. Sam wipes the blade clean on the pressed suit and tucks it into his coat pocket right next to Ruby’s knife. 

 

Castiel is next. Every disgusted word and every moment of doubt that Dean was made to feel is paid back in full, a littering of cuts that bleed angel grace until Sam finally burns the angel out. 

 

Crowley - a crossroads demon, the king of said, if he’s to be believed - wants to make a deal. He gets to stay in Sam’s good graces, and he’ll give the Winchesters anything they ask for. There’s an army rising behind the younger Winchester, whether he wants it or not, a faction of loyalists that grows every day and squashes any attempts lead by other demons. 

 

Saying yes to Crowley is a no brainer. He’s the pseudo-king, a ruler to deal with the technicalities and ‘diplomacies’ of Hell. Sam prefers Earth, roaming it in the Impala with his brother by his side. Sure, his ever growing powers could make travel easier, but this? This is home. 

 

* * *

 

A rumor and a bit of happenstance lead them to a prophet. Chuck Shurley doesn’t look like much, and he reeks of depression and alcoholism. He nearly passes out at Sam’s feet when Sam reaches out and touches the man’s mind with his own, showing him in a flash that they’re the real, flesh-and-bone Winchesters. 

 

Chuck surrenders the newest “manuscript” to Sam, and stutters out a promise to call if there are any crucial updates. A demon gets stationed next door, close enough to keep an eye on the prophet without incurring the wrath of Chuck’s “guardian angel.” 

 

Sam’s going to have to do something about that.

  
  


Dean stays through one of Sam’s kills, this one a pretty brunette girl. It’s the first time since hell that he hasn’t opted to wait in the car, and - for Dean’s sake - Sam keeps their time together short. She’s petite anyway, and bleeds out quick. The itch under Sam’s skin settles some, giving way to other desires.

 

Back at the motel, Dean’s more than willing. He bites at Sam’s bottom lip until it bleeds, sucking at the tender wound while rough hands strip them of clothing. Sam pins Dean to the door, grinding his cheek against chipping paint. Bowed legs get spread wide as Sam nudges Dean’s feet apart, pulling one of Dean’s arms up against his back to arch his body for Sam. 

 

Sam swipes a coating of lube over his dick and over Dean’s hole, pushing in without any apparent regard for the strangled sound Dean makes or the way his free hand scrabbles against the door in an attempt to anchor himself. He ends up reaching down to grip Sam’s wrist, blunt nails sinking into the soft skin on the inside, pressing against the tendon there. 

 

“Fuck, fuckin’ fuck Sam-” 

 

“There’s people outside Dean. You gonna let ‘em hear you come for me? Gonna scream nice and loud?” Sam’s voice is smoke and honey and it makes Dean’s cock twitch as it swings between his legs. 

 

Closing his eyes, Dean can hear the low murmur of voices outside, tires on gravel, and the hum of cars zipping down the highway. Those sounds get quickly drowned out by his own hoarse cries and Sam’s string of dirty talk, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud around the small and otherwise-quiet room. Sam’s cock fills him full and stretches him wide, grazing steadily over his prostate; tears prickle behind his lids, and he can’t seem to close his mouth to muffle the noises he’s making. 

 

“Please, God, little brother, please,” Dean groans, needing a hand on his cock to really get there; he can’t quite manage to come without, no matter how Sam might draw things out. Sam bites a sharp nip into his shoulder in reprimand, but slides a hand around to stroke Dean anyway. 

 

Come splatters on filthy carpet and dented wood, trickling down in pearlescent strands that highlight how dirty the wood really is. Sam comes deep inside Dean, pulling out and thumbing over the gape left in his wake just before Dean’s hole clenches shut. 

 

“Keep it in. Wanna fuck you later.” 

 

Sam draws Dean into bed, feeding him a little blood from his finger to soothe the ache in his ass. Dean practically purrs, sleepy and sated as he nuzzles into Sam’s arms. Sam orders some take out in a low voice, petting his fingers through Dean’s hair while his brother sleeps. 

 

* * *

 

Crowley tries to stage a coup. The demons that back him are powerful, true, but too few in number. Sam’s almost more aggravated that he has to make a trip to hell than anything. He leaves the ruined, burnt out corpses of Crowley’s generals behind on earth, drained of every drop of blood he can eke from them. All but the last. 

 

“Go to your king. Tell him the Winchesters are coming,” Sam snarls before yanking the demon from its meatsuit and sending it back to hell.

 

* * *

  
  


Dean takes a little more blood than normal in preparation, eyes swirling with darkness when he finally looks up at his brother. Sam can’t help but cup his cheek, feeling stubble and warm skin as they stand at the howling entrance to hell. There are no words for this, not really, so he just crashes their lips together just before they jump in. 

 

Sam and Dean fight side by side, back to back, taking down the demons that dare stand against them and pursuing the ones who flee out of pure malice. Loyal demons take those ones down, happy to serve and eager to please as the Winchesters tear their way through hell to where Crowley is hiding. 

 

There are a handful of upper-levels protecting their so-called king, but Sam has the majority of hell at his back and his brother at his side. He considers drawing it out, making Crowley suffer for daring to try to rise above his place. 

  
  


Instead, Sam decides to drag his demonic form from his meatsuit, leaving the crumpled body on the floor next to the throne as the turns to face the room. There are scatters skirmishes here and there, but each of them quickly subsides as the remaining turncoats are snuffed out. 

 

“This is what happens to the disloyal.” With a snap of his fingers, Sam turns the cloud of red smoke into sulfuric ash and a faint wisp of flame that quickly burns out. “Remember your place, and remember you only have what power I grant you. Do that much, and you won’t end up like this.” 

 

Sam leaves the body behind to be devoured by the hellhounds and puts a lesser demon in power. Cecily is smart and charming enough to keep things running but not strong enough to incur a true following. She’s loyal to a fault, and Sam makes a mental note to talk to Dean about inviting her into their bed; after all, a good king does his best to keep his subjects happy, right? 


End file.
